


what we must to get by

by smithens



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Cut Scene, Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas, Closeted Character, Domestic Fluff, Fix It, Lying By Evasion, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Misunderstandings, Mood Whiplash, Out Character, Post-Canon, Tender Sex, The Closet Is A Steel Reinforced Concrete Vault, lavender marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-03 11:01:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21178331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithens/pseuds/smithens
Summary: Thomas Barrow calls Richard Ellis, and his wife answers the phone.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> please note that this work uses custom styling for section headings and altering the appearance of correspondence.

## PROLOGUE: JULY 21, 1927

* * *

"What, you aren't put up with his Majesty?"

"Put up  _ by _ his Majesty, not with him — there are dozens of us in service there, you know; we can't all be holed up in attic rooms." 

"But a valet?"

"Second valet," Richard says, but he sounds like he dislikes making the correction. He looks back to the road ahead of them, unsmiling but not stern, either, and he keeps his focus where it ought to be.

It's a good thing, too, because Thomas is staring — not unabashed, but unable to stop himself. He's been hung up on him since he showed him to his room yesterday, and since then it's just been a steady fall, head over heels, hard and fast. 

Richard probably doesn't notice. Men never notice anything until they _know_, and then they always think he's into them when he isn't; still, that doesn't make it a good idea to ogle, or even a safe one. For all he knows, the man has a harem of ladies' maids at Buckingham Palace or something.

Wouldn't put it past him, looking like he does.

"Unusual," he says, finally, but it's not like anything about Richard has been especially usual thus far, and these days he wouldn't have any idea what goes in most London households, anyhow, let alone the big London household.

"Very much so, for a country house," Richard replies. "Or for city houses, but you must understand that at Buckingham Palace, there are servants with servants."

Well, there's that settled.

"Mr. Miller does have an attic room, actually, near the dressing chamber. I will admit he's got… rather more important things to do than I have."

Sheepish is a good look on him, if only because he's seemed fairly smug and self-satisfied since he arrived at the Abbey.

"...but, no, a good deal of the servants' quarters are across the street. Means there's more privacy, to be honest — also means there's a telephone, courtesy of the employer, couldn't afford it otherwise."

"Living in luxury, aren't you, Mr. Ellis?"

"Don't know if I'd go so far as to call it that. Besides, I have to be careful with the thing, it's a party line, more to keep us at beck and call than anything else."

"You don't mean to tell me they've not got a whole bell system rigged up across the street?"

This makes him laugh, which was his intention.

Maybe he only feels this way because it's been so long that anyone new has come around, let alone taken any interest at all in him, let alone looked like something out of a paper advertisement for ties or dressing gowns or trousers or something — 

"Remind me to get you the number before I go back up."

Richard does look at him, then, gives him a congenial smile, and Thomas's stomach fills up with butterflies. 

The feeling is inconvenient, to say the least, but there's only a quarter of an hour or so left until they're in York — just fifteen minutes of acting like a normal person, and then he can get himself together before Richard's back from his parents' place.

Fifteen minutes.

He can do that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > **[1:00 PM] marschallin:** why did they feel the need to completely upend accuracy, common sense, etc. for this  
**[1:01 PM] smithens:** because they're homophobic
> 
>   
this fic is literally just me both (a) processing how terrible it is that literally anyone thought it was [worthwhile to write a 'bad end' to the thomas/richard subplot in the film](http://web.archive.org/web/20191020185631/https://www.buzzfeednews.com/article/michaelblackmon/downton-abbey-movie-director-gay-storyline?origin=thum) and (b) saying 'fuck you' to whoever came up with that because in addition to being a homophobic plotline to have in 2019, it is also like...... glaringly historically inaccurate for a man working in service for the royal family to be married? which just makes it more homophobic. a neverending circle of awful ideas that real live people in the 21st century had to greenlight at some point.
> 
> since this movie is raking in money and i'm extra pissed about this scene ever existing right now, i wanted to write something for it both just to get it out of my head and also so that if there's ever a sequel that revisits this bullshit i've got an already existing concept i can fall back on. you might be wondering why the fuck i would do that if this makes me extremely angry and upset and was shelved anyway. the reason is: if i control the level and sort of suffering, it's cathartic; if the suffering is thrust upon me it is Not. hashtag own voices or whatever.
> 
> anyway, everything ends happily because thomas barrow deserves it.


	2. Chapter 2

## JULY 25, 1927

* * *

"Molly and I are going down to Crawley this week, while you're on tour again," Winifred says, pink in the cheeks, "to, you know, _visit her ailing mother,_ and if there's time and the weather's all right we'll keep on to Brighton Thursday afternoon."

Crawley. 

Doesn't that remind him of someone. 

"They gave you the time off, then?"

"Why, no, I'm flying the coop."

Snarky as ever.

Richard sets his knife and fork down and clasps his hands in his lap, tries to smile, because he's glad for her and ought to show it — Molly's been working nights at the hospital for months now, and Winifred's not exactly got a compatible schedule in domestic work. They don't get to see each other nearly as often as they like. 

Or, rather, nearly as often as they can. What they'd like, Richard knows, because it's what he wants for himself, too, when he has someone, is to see each other all the time, set up home together and share a bed and go out under their own names and hold hands and call each other wife and have nobody bat an eye, but no matter what he wants to think, no matter what he told Thomas Barrow on the walk back up to Downton Abbey three long, long days ago, that's not about to happen anytime soon.

"And is her mother's place quite out of the way?"

He knows she's tired of it, but he can't help worrying.

She pokes at a floret of cauliflower with her fork and frowns. 

"It's different for us, you know," gently, kindly, but she's got that wistful look on her face, the one that means, _I wish it wasn't like this._ He knows it well, probably has one of his own that she'd recognize, because God, do they ever spend a lot of time wishing.

"I do, Fred, you know I do, but — " _we work for the king and queen and we can't take any damn chances._

"Richard, no concierge would see a married woman and a widow travelling together and think anything's out of sorts."

And no innkeeper would call the police if they got too handsy, either. 

It's on his mind, after everything that happened in York. Getting arrested might not be a likely consequence for two women; still, that hardly means there are no consequences for two women at all.

Richard's nervous, always nervous — nervous when they're gone, when they're at the flat and he isn't, when she's at Molly's place, that something is going to happen, someone is going to find out, and the pretty picture of regularity that they've painted together is going to blow up in their faces. He tries not to let it show, and he's become very good at the veneer in public, but he's long since stopped trying to keep up the act for Winifred.

They may not love each other the way people think they ought to, but they are married. There's only so much a man can hide from his wife.

But he knows when to drop a subject.

"Brighton would be nice."

"Rather more train fare than we'd like, but yes, it would be."

They're quiet for the rest of dinner, though, and it takes everything he has not to start lecturing.

Halfway through the washing up, the telephone rings.

***

It's only been a few days — didn't think he'd have time to call so soon, what with the aftermath of the visit and everything, and it's possible that Richard is back on the tour and won't be home, anyway, even though he said he would be, that he goes back to sort everything out between visits. If that's not the case, he can try again the next time he gets the courage to, but whatever's come over him now probably isn't going to last long, so he takes a deep breath and gives the directory services operator the name and address.

Then it's just the dialing tone, and his heart is racing.

He doesn't know what he's expecting. 

It's not like Richard actually asked him to telephone — they were distracted after he mentioned it, to say the least, and he never got around to giving him the number, either, hence the directory. But he did seem to mean for him to, even if they forgot about it, referenced the dangers of a party line and whatnot. Given that Thomas spent the entire visit missing out on hints that are now extremely obvious in hindsight, he doesn't want to let this one pass him by. And if it's too soon, if he seems eager and earnest… well, that's because he is, and he's done trying to hide it.

He doesn't know what he isn't expecting until it happens.

A young, pretty, and decidedly female voice picks up on the other end: "Hello, you've reached the Ellis household on the royal domestic line, this is Mrs. Richard Ellis speaking."

_Mrs. Richard Ellis_.

It's a punch to the gut. Thomas's hands seize up; he almost drops the damn telephone. 

"Hello?"

He feels like he's choking.

"Sorry, I – operator must have made a – a mistake on the switchboard, don't mean to bother you – "

And he hangs up the earpiece with too much force and not enough care, seething, and just stands at his desk.

He should've known better — all good things, as the saying goes, especially where he's concerned, _all bloody goddamn good things._

Fucking bastard. 

***

"What was it?"

"Switchboard error, the man said, seemed a bit upset by it, too," says Fred, and she goes back to scrubbing the dishes, but she looks a little perturbed. "Whoever it was, he hung up soon as he realised. Directory call, but perhaps it's easier to make mistakes that way, if you're an operator."

"A directory call?"

"For Mr. Richard Ellis, according to her, but I don't suppose you're the only man by that name with a telephone in greater London. No mention of our employer, either."

She hands him the saucepan; he dries it. Something seems off about this, and he can't quite place it, but then he sees the look on her face and knows he's not alone in the feeling. 

"...doesn't one need an address to make a number enquiry these days?" she asks, brow furrowed.

Which means it wasn't a switchboard error.

And Richard's only given both his name and his address to one person in the whole of the last year, and that was a few days ago.

He just stares at her, realisation dawning, and then he drops the saucepan with a clatter and puts his face into his hands to keep himself from banging his head into the cupboard — 

"_Goddamnit_ – "

"Oh, _Christ_, Richard, didn't you ever tell him you had a wife?"

***

And that's the _epitome_ of bloody circumspect, isn't it, when you're into men and you work in service, is to get married, to take the only ticket out of the household that'll still let you keep your job, at least nowadays, to put up a front and look after a wife and kids and ditch them to shag another man whenever you can get away, to live a damn lie even more than any of the rest of them do.

He should have had alarm bells ringing in his head the second Ellis mentioned it. There's no way in hell that anyone at the Royal Household is forward thinking enough to put up a bachelor servant out of the house, but a _married_ servant, that's all par for the course in the twentieth century, that's just the sort of progressive even the King and Queen might be on board with.

Not that they have anything to do with it themselves, probably, but he'll blame them and have no problem with it, because they're the ones that had Richard Ellis in their entourage when they came to Downton Abbey, and if they'd never shown up he'd have kept on with his life and assumed he'd be lonely forever and _settle_. Because that's what he would have done, eventually, accepted his lot and settled, instead of having his entire life blown up in one night, instead of finally starting to think that maybe he could have something, anything, a shred of happiness or companionship, and maybe he still could, now, but he's almost thirty five years old and he's exhausted of trying to make things work out and going behind people's backs. When he was twenty it'd have been different, everything was different back then — 

But he's older now, and he's a better person. He's a _good_ person.

And good people don't fool around with married men.

***

"Yes, I'd like to place a trunk call to Downton, Yorkshire?"

"Of course, sir, I'll transfer you to a Yorkshire switchboard. You'll be charged at the national service rate. Please hold."

And now they just have to be patient. 

Winifred's just standing there behind him pinching the bridge of her nose. "Do you have any idea how much this is going to cost?"

"I'll sort it out," Richard tells her, palm over the receiver. He'd pay anything if it meant this could just be over and dealt with and apologised for. They don't actually _have_ anything, but he'll manage it, once he can think straight, once he's managed to talk to Thomas and do whatever the telephone equivalent is of begging on his hands and knees.

"Operator."

"Yes, I'd like directory enquiry service to Downton, Yorkshire?"

Always following a script.

He turns around to see his wife shaking her head at him. 

She's the only person whose disapproval actually matters. He turns back.

"Yes, sir, and whom would you like to call?"

"The staff line at Downton Abbey, please."

"Downton Abbey? There's no directory service for Downton Abbey, sir – "

If only he remembered the damn number — the last time he called was under rather different circumstances, but it wasn't even a week ago, so he should have it on the back of his mind. He would, normally; he has a memory for that sort of thing.

He was distracted by the man who was with him.

"Of course there isn't. Do forgive me, I ought to have been up front. My name is Richard Ellis, I'm calling from London on a domestic line within the Buckingham Palace household, you may wish to verify the number, that's…" and as he says it he can feel Fred glaring daggers at him, but he's not looking at her, "I've an urgent need to reach the head housekeeper, Mrs. Charles Carson, or the butler, Mr. Thomas Barrow? I think the name is. Only I'm afraid I've misplaced the downstairs calling card – "

"Pardon me, Mr. Ellis, I'll put you through shortly."

But it doesn't take much time at all.

"...I'm sorry, sir, it seems the line is off the hook."

"Sorry?"

She repeats herself.

It's confirmation enough to know that it was Thomas who called.

"Thank you for your efforts, Miss, I'll… I'll try again tomorrow, thank you."

He hangs up.

"Everyone has to be discreet except for you, don't they?" says Fred, steely. She's somewhere between infuriated and sympathetic, he can tell. Her anger is always icy more than anything else; it blends in with her other emotions, sometimes. Molly's different; Molly just screams, and he wishes she were here so he could just get the sense knocked back into him all at once, instead of this drawn out passive business that Fred always ends up getting into. "And you can't try again tomorrow, you'll be – "

" – at Burton Constable, I know." He presses the heel of his hand to his forehead, berates himself under his breath. She softens.

"Look, Richard, you're – at some point you're going to come across a problem your job can't solve for you, and you get closer to it with every passing day."

Doesn't he know it.

***

Baxter knocks into him as he's turning around from the door. 

Or he knocks into Baxter, rather, because he's the one who's moving abruptly and not paying any attention to his surroundings. After all this, he's pretty sure he'll include _paying attention_ among the things he's worst at, because he's done a right terrible job of it from the moment the damn post came in, that one day. If he'd been paying attention, he wouldn't have gotten fired, wouldn't have gone to York, wouldn't have gotten arrested, wouldn't have had to be rescued, wouldn't have told Richard everything, wouldn't have let him — 

"Mr. Barrow," she says, loud. As close as she ever gets to anywhere near shouting when there's not some sort of emergency, and it must be the fourth or fifth time she's said his name for her to hit that sort of volume. But it does its job, gets his attention. How about that.

"Look, could you just – " 

He's louder than she was, and without the same excuse.

She recoils.

Outbursts don't suit him, they never have, but he's been having more and more of them lately.

Thank God he still has this damn job.

"I – sorry, I – "

He _knows_ how she feels about men raising their voices, and it's not a feeling he wants to contribute to. Ever. 

"Sorry."

They just stare at each other.

She hoists up her sewing machine and gives him a look.

He owes her the bloody world for putting up with him, doesn't he.

"I think I'll make a pot of tea, Thomas, would you like to join me in the dining room?"

It's not the sort of offer he'd dare to say no to, not from her.

Once he's at the table, he crosses his arms down and rests his forehead on them, doesn't move from his slump until he hears her set the tea tray down some minutes later.

"What's happened?"

Thomas sits back, rubs his hand on his face. She's got that worried, motherly crease in her brow, and all he can think is, _after everything you've been through, after everything I've put you through in your life, how the hell are you so patient and kind._

"He's married," he says, because that's the only way to do it. All at once, like ripping off a plaster bandage.

Her lips part and her eyes widen.

"Mr. Ellis?"

He huffs. "No, Baxter, the king of England — _yes_, Mr. Ellis."

"But how do you know?"

"Just spoke to his wife on the telephone is how," mutters Thomas. He closes the fingers of his left hand into a fist, opens them again. Physical discomfort is a good way to stop fixating on the mental kind.

She grabs his hand and presses her palm against his, stilling him, and he tries to breathe.

"Is that… very common?"

He shrugs — he doesn't get out much anymore, that's for sure, but it's not like this would be the first time he'd ever met a married man who took a shine to him. He didn't make it through a single of the Crawley girls' seasons without some stuffy Peer or someone coming on to him, even if the only man he ever took a shine to himself was decidedly not married. 

Which ended up being more of a problem than if he had been.

Then there was the war, of course. Thing is, morality and honor and whatnot was all a bit different on the Western Front — for all he knows, the ones who made it back home never wanted for anything but their wives ever again. He doesn't care whether they did or didn't, it's not like he loved any of them, and he hasn't seen the inside of a trench for more than ten years, now. Good riddance, and all that.

And now that he thinks on it, that man on the steamer to New York a few years back was definitely lying about being a widower, but Thomas didn't love him, either.

So, yes, it might be common among men like him at large, but it sure as hell isn't among the ones he's actually given a damn about.

Baxter tilts her head at him.

The point is — "Doesn't excuse him if it is, does it."

Even if he never minded it before, he does now, and 'now' is when this is happening.

"No," she says, "no, it doesn't, of course, that poor woman. I'm so sorry, Thomas," and then she lets go of him to set about pouring their tea.

***

"I just don't see why you lie as much as you do, Richard."

Except that he didn't lie, this time, he just didn't say the truth aloud. It never came up. To that, she'd said, _I don't believe you,_ and, _but couldn't you have brought it up_, and, _how was he meant to know he ought to ask_. It's a fair argument — she's good at giving him one.

He stares at the ceiling.

"You lie."

"Never to Molly."

"Hardly the same set of circumsta – "

"The last time you spoke about a man the way you talk about this one you were twenty, Richard."

He doesn't need reminding.

For a long while, they just lay there, not speaking. This isn't an argument he can win (it isn't one he _should_ win, he knows very well that he's in the wrong here), but he still feels the need to justify himself.

The problem is, he doesn't know why he did it, either.

When the silence becomes unbearable, he says, "it's different for us."

For men.

Or maybe just for him.

"If you ever throw my own words back at me like that again, Richard Ellis, so help me, I'll — "

"And I'm sure I'll deserve it."

They never sleep facing one another — only share a bed because they have to — but he turns toward her, anyway, puts his hand on top of the comforter and wills her to take it.

She does.

"You should have told him."

"I don't know why I didn't."

They're like a faulty gramophone, the two of them.

"Of all the married men he's met," she says, quiet, less bitter, more sad, "do you think any of them could give him what you can?"

"Don't think he's met many men at all, married or otherwise." 

Before the ones he was in a jail cell with.

He and Thomas had talked for ages, but mostly about themselves. About hiding. _I don't know any men like I am,_ he'd said.

"That makes it worse, not better."

She's right.


	3. Chapter 3

## INTERLUDE: JULY 22, 1927

* * *

It's something to mull over, that, but a hundred years ago men were still getting hanged for it, and sometimes he feels like things haven't come that far since then. They're not aeroplanes. The whole Oscar Wilde thing happened after they were born, for crying out loud; he's pretty sure fifty years ago things would have been even worse.

He won't say that, it'd ruin the moment, but Richard doesn't say anything more, either.

The rest of the walk is silent.

Thomas unlocks the back door and holds it for him; Richard tips his hat as they step inside. The entryway is empty, of course, and dark, everything turned off and tucked away for the night — everyone else will have long gone to bed by now, most likely. It's lucky. He doesn't know about the Majesties' staff, but his own wouldn't shut up if they knew he was coming in so late with a man. Midnight is not exactly prime time for dining with your parents, after all.

Then, maybe the fact that they'd all have gone to bed before they got in is more telling than if they were up to see it happen, but he doesn't need to give a damn about that until tomorrow morning at the earliest. And tomorrow morning won't be early, if he has his way; he's not working, so he'll be sleeping in. (Probably only until half six, but he can dream, at least.)

Together they ascend the stairs to the attics. Most of the rooms up here are occupied for the first time in at least a decade; tomorrow night they'll all be empty again. Until a few days ago, he hadn't been down the corridor that Richard's is on in years.

Once they've made it, he holds the door for him again; when he's about to step back, Richard waves him in. The door squeaks when he closes it, and they both wince.

"Where's yours?" asks Richard, face unreadable. "Your room."

"Around the corner — pass through that door and then down the hall, got a name tag on and everything."

He leans on the door frame as Richard sorts out his things, hangs up his hat and jacket, and they don't say much more than that until he's looking ready to get undressed for bed.

"Would you mind terribly if I joined you?"

Thomas opens his mouth, but it's like any words he can think of are stopped before they can get there. His heart is racing.

Richard smiles, but it's not the same one he's been making, doesn't reach his eyes. Then he's just staring at the wall, hands in his trouser pockets. "Of course that's very forward – "

"I wouldn't mind," Thomas says quickly. 

Before he misses his chance.


	4. Chapter 4

## JULY 26, 1927

* * *

"You're going to be late if you keep that up."

He's sitting on their bed in his shirtsleeves, staring off into space. It's four in the morning, and he didn't sleep well.

"The Baroness has an appointment this evening, so I'll attend to that," Winifred says, as she pins her fringe behind her ear, "and then Molly and I are taking the nine o'clock out of Victoria tomorrow morning."

She looks at him through the vanity mirror.

"Don't do anything stupid up in Yorkshire, Richard."

"I'm not going to be careless, Fred."

"I said stupid, not careless — I can't imagine you doing anything careless in your life."

She grabs her apron from the hook on the door and slips into her shoes. "Because it's not being careless that got you into this awful mess, it's being cautious."

He doesn't say anything, just rises to put his tie on.

***

Thomas wakes at half five, as usual, dresses and shaves and freshens up without feeling anything.

When he opens the door to the pantry at six, he's greeted by the very loud sound of the off-hook tone.

For a moment, all he can think to do is swear at it, but he comes to his senses and fixes the thing before collapsing into his chair.

Hopefully no one upstairs had any midnight calls to make.

***

"How's Winnie?"

"Quite well, thank you," Richard says with a smile. He hands a case to the carriage boy, then turns to take another from Davies, checks its lock, turns back to hand it off. They make an excellent assembly line, the three of them. "Finally got a few days off, so she's headed south this week."

"Good for her — I'd do anything for a day in the sun, myself."

"Well, it's not for leisure, I'm afraid — friend of ours has got a mother with cancer, and the poor woman's a widow; Winnie's off with her for a visit."

"Christ, Ellis, sorry to hear it," says Davies, "but she's a thoughtful girl, she'll be good company."

They step aside to let the Equerry's men through and then head to their passenger carriage.

Half of the train is made up of their colleagues; the other half is made up of their cargo.

On the way to Hull, he and Davies talk about the odd affair that was the Downton jaunt — Davies was at Harewood and he was in York; they both agree on how glad they are they had nothing to do with it. Can't afford to get the stomach flu, after all. 

It's a test of his acting skills if there ever was one. 

They get a paper when it comes around, which keeps them quiet for a while, but when they've both exhausted it, conversation starts up again — about the Davies' recent arrival.

"Any chance he'll have a friend to grow up with?"

"Been trying," Richard lies, with an easy smile and practised zeal. "Just have to wait and see."

Winifred began this story months ago by mistake; he helps her keep it up. A month from now they're going to start getting excited; in October, he'll take her to see a doctor. The doctor will give them bad news. 

Afterward, no one will talk about children in front of them again, and they'll have one less thing to lie about.

They could write novels, if they wanted.

"Tough with our job, isn't it."

"Sure is." He lets his smile fade, looks out the window, pauses. He counts the seconds: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, then frowns. "Starting to wonder if –"

"Hey, now, none of that – Betty and I worried, we did, but now we've got little Cliff, haven't we? Just be smart about it and your time'll come."

It won't.

But the man he's pretending to be desperately wants it to, so he nods, and says, "and we'll thank Heavens when it does."

***

He manages to keep his composure for much of the morning, through the post and the paper and the servants' breakfast. Baxter keeps giving him looks, though, and he's fairly certain Mrs. Hughes is, too — she's sharper than he ever gave her credit for, and she knows him better now than she ever used to.

It takes everything he has to maintain it, but he does, tries to keep up the attitude he's fallen into over the past few days.

Everyone's noticed he's been smiling more often than usual, and they will definitely notice if he stops.

Twenty minutes before he's meant to be in the dining room, the bell for the back door rings. Andy is setting places and Mrs. Hughes is helping Anna with some laundry problem, so he gets it himself. This turns out to be a good choice, because it's for him.

Against his better judgment, he opens the envelope right in front of the delivery boy.

POST OFFICE 

TELEGRAM

ORIGIN JUL 26 1927 0909 HULL RECEIVED JUL 26 1927 0913 DOWNTON

BARROW

CO DOWNTON ABBEY

DOWNTON NORTH YORKSHIRE

KNOW YOU PHONED MUST EXPLAIN WHEN BEST TIME RETURN CALL

ELLIS

CO BURTON CONSTABLE HALL JUL2630

BURTON CONSTABLE EAST RIDING

He grips the paper more firmly than he ought to.

"Would you like to reply, sir," the kid says — he's a new one, Thomas doesn't know his name and doesn't really care right now, either. 

He wouldn't _like_ to, but he has to, doesn't he, so he accepts the offered pen and paper, sucks in his cheeks, and scrawls something down.

"Hold on," he says, after, and then he goes back inside to get his coin purse. He doesn't rush. He's not going to be hasty over this, not going to get into a stir, because he's not the one in the wrong.

At least, that's what he tells himself, but there's a voice in the back of his head that maybe he did fuck this up somehow, that it's his fault, that he came off as untrustworthy or naive or something and did it to himself.

Won't let it interfere with work, though, so after he pays the boy and sends him off again he goes up to serve breakfast and tries to act like everything's fine and dandy.

***

The head housekeeper shows them to their rooms. She's old, brisk and self-assured, just like all the others in her role across the country, and as he's putting his coat on the hook he hears her grumble about their arrival and all its ills to one of her housemaids just outside the door.

Davies hears it, too, and he laughs — they're put up together, which is fine, means neither of them have to deal with Miller. 

They're not close; he's not close with anyone he works with, and Davies would never look at him the same way again if he knew how much he didn't know. But they've been acquainted for years, rose in the ranks together. They've got something of an understanding. 

Or he does, at least. Davies might actually think they _are_ close.

But of the things that matter, the only one they've really got in common is that they both left His Majesty's service in 1914 and came back in one piece with sound mind four years later.

"Five whole nights up here, how's about that," Richard says, as he opens his suitcase. 

"Probably why they brought the whole regiment." 

All seventy odd of them.

Downton and Harewood weren't even at half staff, although Harewood did have all of the downstairs folk for the Princess Royal close at hand.

They probably won't let that happen again for short visits in the future.

He's mighty pleased about the part he played in it all, if he's honest.

"Any chance you got tomorrow evening off, too?" Davies asks. "I'll be going into Hull, I think." He's putting clothes in the wardrobe; when he turns back around, Richard shakes his head.

"They gave me a night at Downton, remember – doubt I'll be excused again 'til Christmas."

"Funny how they've got all those lords with 'bedchamber' in their titles and we're the ones doing the dirty work, innit?"

They've had this conversation a million times, but it never gets old.

Before he can say anything, though, the housekeeper is back and rapping on the door. She enters without waiting for them to invite her in, which doesn't bode well for the rest of the stay.

"Telegram for Mr. Richard Ellis, that's you, isn't it," and she hands it to him, then marches off without another word.

"Got back to you fast, didn't she?" says Davies.

He'd sent the first one from Paragon Station hardly an hour ago.

"That's my girl," Richard says. He tucks it into his pocket and winks for good measure.

When Davies goes to the washroom twenty minutes later, he's in such a hurry to look at it that he rips the damn envelope.

ROYAL POST

INLAND TELEGRAPHS

MR RICHARD ELLIS CO BURTON CONSTABLE HALL BURTON CONSTABLE EAST RIDING

ORIGIN OFFICE DOWNTON RECEIPT 10.12 AM SKIRLAUGH

AFTER 2200 BEFORE 0600

After ten.

He can manage that.

It'll be tough, he'll need to be covert, but he can manage it.

***

"Telegram for you, Mr. Barrow!"

"Could you just put it on my desk, Albert, thank you – "

They're all scrambling about trying to get things into order for afternoon tea, because everything is out of order downstairs — last week it was the boiler, now it's the stove, next week it'll probably be the electricity or something. 

A lack of hot water is inconvenient, and a power outage would be, too, but they're both _manageable_. Neither of these things would have been a problem twenty years ago.

But if the gas line is botched, they're looking at blowing the damn house up, which, despite anything he may have said in the past, is not something he especially wants or needs to happen.

So, as Mrs. Hughes put it, there are to be no open flames in the kitchen until further notice. This doesn't mean much as far as tea itself is concerned, that's all cold and made up already, but it'll wreak havoc on dinner. They've already got a plumber coming, but there's not much they can do until he arrives.

Mrs. Patmore's in a fit, Andy's nowhere to be found, Daisy's got a burn on her arm from the flare up, Anna can't find the first aid kit, and Thomas was due in the library ten minutes ago.

His love life is the last thing on his mind.

***

By the time he's in the pantry to decant wine for the evening, because the cogs have to keep turning despite it all, he's forgotten about the telegram entirely. Seeing it on his desk throws him off.

His nerves are only going to resolve if he opens it, though, so he does.

POST OFFICE 

TELEGRAM

ORIGIN JUL 26 1927 1446 SKIRLAUGH RECEIVED JUL 26 1927 1452 DOWNTON

BARROW 

CO DOWNTON ABBEY 

DOWNTON NORTH YORKSHIRE

2330 TONIGHT

ELLIS

CO BURTON CONSTABLE HALL

BURTON CONSTABLE EAST RIDING

He reads it, reads it again.

It's only two words. Nothing to get upset or excited over — and he _is_ excited, even if he doesn't want to be, because he knows deep down that he really does want to hear his voice, but he's also put out and wants nothing to do with him ever again.

So.

Mixed feelings.

Not something he needs to worry about now, though, with everything that's gone on — the stove is shut off until tomorrow at the earliest and they're going 'American style' upstairs this evening, whatever the hell that means — so he takes the message from the morning out of his pocket, lays it on the new one, and then folds them in half until he can't anymore. And then he sticks the wad in a drawer. When he has the time, he'll take it up to his room and add it to the matchbox he'd put the pendant in the night before. (One of few sound decisions he's made recently — what he almost did was throw the thing out of the window, though thankfully he couldn't actually bring himself to in the end.)

But he doesn't have the time, so he opens up the cellar to do his actual job.

Out of sight, out of mind.

***

The phone rings at 11:28.

"Either your watch is ahead or you're mighty anxious."

Maybe Richard will be impressed by his awful telephone etiquette.

"Both." 

"Or both."

And then there's nothing from the other end but breathing.

Thomas huffs. "I don't have all ni — "

"Can you be in Harrogate on the 31st?"

More abrupt than he'd expected, but he can't complain about Richard being up front with him, really, given what this is all about.

"If I wanted."

He hasn't taken time off in ages.

Except for the time he took off five days ago, but that was different.

"Not sure why I would, though," he adds, before Richard can say anything else.

Sharp inhale, long exhale, then, "I hoped you might understand why I wouldn't like to discuss this over the telephone."

"Think I'll stay in Downton."

"Thomas — "

"Say hello to your wife for me."

He hangs up.

It makes him feel powerful for about half of a second, and then he just feels stupid.

The phone rings again at 11:33.

"Downton Abbey, this is the butler, Barrow, speaking."

"She's a lesbian, Thomas," Richard hisses.

That makes him sit up straight.

"Well, then, Mr. Ellis."

Richard doesn't say anything.

"I suppose I'll be seeing you in Harrogate."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter contains semi-explicit consensual sexual content (fade to black style!). there is also implied/referenced: war, homophobia.

## INTERLUDE: JULY 22, 1927

* * *

The bed gets noisy if you move too much, so they're up against the wall by the window, facing each other.

Thomas has his thigh between Richard's legs and is kissing him fiercely. He's aching — they're both aching, he's fairly certain, they wouldn't very well be at it if they weren't. 

It's been literal years since the last time he was with a man like this.

It is taking everything he has not to just give in and come in his trousers.

As soon as he pulls back to breathe, Richard gasps, _"God,_ Barrow," and he tilts his head back, braces himself against the wall. Thomas draws his lips along his cheek, then up his jaw, then to his temple.

"You can call me Thomas, you know," he says, a breath into his ear. He puts his weight forward, lifts his knee a little. "You're not my employer."

Richard moans, and then his hand is off of Thomas's back so he can bite into his sleeve.

_Literal years,_ but he still knows what he's doing, seems like.

They're still half-dressed. He parts from Richard enough that he can unbutton his braces and undo his fly; once his shirt is untucked, he hesitates. Should he take that off? Would that be comfortable? They're not in a bed, from what he can remember it's not exactly a luxury being unclothed and upright and against something, but he can't very well do what he wants to if he can't get his underwear off of him — 

Impatient, Richard lets go of him, hooks his thumbs under the waistband of his trousers, and tugs down.

Because he's wearing boxers and Thomas is an idiot.

"Very modern," he says.

"Lucky you," Richard replies.

His cock throbs.

"Lucky me," he murmurs, and then he starts to fall to his knees.

Richard grabs him by the elbow before he can get very far.

"Ba – Thomas," he breathes, "Thomas."

Like it's a word in a foreign language. 

Even to his own ears, it sort of is.

He almost says, _do you not want me?_ — it'd be pathetic, so he doesn't, but he's thinking it, because Richard's staring at him with an odd look on his face. Caught unawares, like he's just woken up and hasn't gotten his bearings yet.

Or maybe it's only the combination of having a hard-on and trying to think at the same time.

"Thought this was what we were doing," Thomas mumbles. 

Richard lets go of his arm to press his palm to his jaw, then the side of his head, thumb rubbing against his cheek bone and settling in front of his ear. His hand is smooth and uncalloused and gentle.

It makes his breath hitch.

Thomas worries for a moment that he's changed his mind, that this is going to end here and he's going to be left embarrassed and unsatisfied and kicking himself for daring to want something, anything, even a _taste,_ no pun intended, but then Richard's kissing him again. It's tender this time, without the sense that they'll die if they stop.

When they part, he says, "can't see you if you're down there," with an alluring smile, and before Thomas can process that Richard's taking off his braces.

The last time anyone wanted to look at him during a fuck was before the war.

After the straps are unfastened, he makes good time with the buttons of his shirt and then his vest; when he touches him, palm flat against his bare torso, warm, Thomas gasps.

"It's been ages, for me, you know that, Ellis," he says, through his teeth. "Too bloody long – "

"Richard."

_Richard._

"Not alone in that," he adds, breathless, and although Thomas is surprised by the admission (and maybe he shouldn't be, he did make it clear that he's not one for gallivanting around), it calms him down considerably. "I – years, actually, I – "

_Don't we make a pair,_ Thomas thinks, and before they can lose steam he undoes his trousers, gets his arms out of his underwear. 

It sinks in, then, what he's doing, how reckless and foolish and desperate it is, they could both get fired, they could both get imprisoned, even, if anyone were to interrupt, if it was the wrong person from Downton or any person from the Royal Household, but he can't bring himself to truly care, because he's been yearning for this for ages and Richard is here and handsome and kind and hilarious and courageous and _interested in him._

"We need to be – very quiet," Thomas breathes, as he wraps his fingers around Richard's prick; Richard gasps, smiles, says, "always wise to be prudent," and he strokes the inside of Thomas's thigh before taking him in hand.

They go back to kissing like it's the end of the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for end notes to this chapter please see [this post i made on tumblr.com](https://combeferre.tumblr.com/post/188653309091/does-anyone-care-about-1920s-underwear-in-1920s) thank you


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter includes implied/referenced homophobia, war, and consensual sexual content.

## JULY 31, 1927

* * *

He's ducking out for his half-day once afternoon tea is over with — if anything goes wrong with the house, it's not his problem. 

He told Mrs. Hughes and Lady Mary that he was going to Darlington, just for fun, his night in York made him realise how little he's been out of Downton over the last few years, blah blah blah; Baxter knows that he'll be in Harrogate and is expecting just about anything other than 'fun'. 

If anything goes wrong with _him_, he'll only have one person to count on.

But hopefully it won't.

***

The train gets in at four; they meet at the station.

They don't shake hands or smile, and Richard won't even meet his eyes. He only says, "good afternoon, Mr. Barrow," and Thomas replies, "good afternoon, Mr. Ellis," and as they walk from the station into the street they keep about a foot apart from each other.

It is not how he'd have expected their next meeting to begin based on their last goodbye, but a lot can change in a week.

***

"How are you?" Thomas says eventually, because the silence is getting uncomfortable.

"Been worse," Richard replies.

Points for honesty.

"You were over in Hull?"

"Quarter of an hour away by car – at Burton Constable Hall. His and Her Majesty left yesterday; I'll go back up to London tomorrow morning."

"How'd you get away?"

"I lied."

_I'll bet you did._

"Make a habit of that, do you?"

He doesn't give a damn if Richard lies to his employer — that'd be hypocritical at best and he knows it — but it's an easy target. He can't not shoot.

"Yes, actually."

Wasn't expecting him to be honest twice, though. 

Thomas tries to look at him, gauge his face, but he's staring straight ahead and his hat's taking care of the rest. As they turn a corner he gets a glimpse, but it doesn't tell him as much as his "and yourself?" does — his voice is shaky, all of a sudden.

"Golly, Mr. Ellis, I'm positively splendid."

"Thomas – "

"Cross with you, to say the least."

They don't say anything more than that for the rest of the walk.

***

Richard has a room in a pub a few blocks away from the station. The place is crowded, downstairs at least, and no one seems to notice them as they make their way to the back and up the stairs.

Good thing, too — the less folks notice about either of them, the better.

Once they're in and the door is locked and chain latched, Richard hangs up his hat and takes off his shoes.

Looks like they'll be here for a while, then. 

Thomas watches him for a moment before following suit, and then he goes a step further and takes off his jacket. Richard still won't look at him, but he sits down on the bed, crosses his legs, settles. Then he takes out a lighter and cigarettes and waves him over.

Thomas does not accept the offered olive branch, but he does sit beside him.

"Tell me about your wife."

Richard lights his cigarette and uses it before saying anything.

"Mrs. Winifred Ellis, née Bailey," he says, like he's talking about the weather and there's a chance of rain. "Molly and I call her Fred."

"Molly."

"Her… beloved."

Right.

Because Mrs. Ellis is a lesbian.

There's no way this isn't going to be awkward.

"She married, too?" Thomas asks. It's more snide than he means for it to be, he's not trying to lay it on thick, but he doesn't feel sorry for it until he feels Richard tense up beside him.

"Was."

Didn't get a divorce to make it past tense, probably.

He wonders if Molly and her late husband had a similar arrangement — if this is a dead lover situation, he's not going to be able to handle it, may as well just tap out now and call it a day.

"Never met the man," Richard says.

...solves that problem, at least, so there's no reason to feel guilty about bringing it up. Besides, this conversation isn't about his wife's lover.

It's about his wife.

"From what I hear," he adds, "only bad choice he ever made was to fall in love with someone who couldn't love him back."

He wants to say, _not like you,_ as far as making bad choices is concerned, but there's that whole thing about glass houses. Richard doesn't know how terrible he can be or has been, and Thomas isn't about to let him. If he can be terrible but he chooses otherwise, there's no harm done, so it's not like it's lying. People just don't make a habit of airing out the skeletons in their closets in the early days of relationships, that's all.

Doesn't mean he's not tempted to give it to him firsthand, though.

"Anyhow, Fred's in service at the Palace, lady's maid."

But she wasn't at Downton, obviously, and probably not at Harewood, either, or she'd've been on his mind enough he wouldn't have neglected to mention her. Which means she can't be working for someone very important.

"To who?"

"Wife of one of the grooms of the bedchamber."

"Servant to a servant."

"Servant to a baroness. Title's inherited. They're hardly the same sort of domestics as we are."

Fair enough. 

He's not sure what he actually wants to know. If she's not the unhappy, dainty, oblivious housewife he imagined, he doesn't feel sorry for her — didn't feel all that sorry for the imaginary one until Baxter mentioned it, really, he was more focused on himself.

The problem, then, the one that he's been ruminating on for the past five days, morning, noon, and night, is that if she knows about him, if she has someone herself and they're not keeping any secrets, Richard had no good reason not to just tell him. It's not like he's walking out on a baby or doing anything else legitimately objectionable. She's clearly not hiding her romance from him, so it stands that he probably wouldn't need to hide his from her. And if he's not hiding it from her, he shouldn't feel the need to hide her from him — but he does, clearly. A wife isn't the sort of secret you ought to keep from a man you have any intention of seeing again.

He wants to just ask why, but he can't, because he's terrified of what the answer might be.

"How does it work?"

Richard hums, reaches to ash his cigarette in the tray on the night table.

Thomas is about to clarify when he answers.

"We live together, keep house, share a bed."

"And a telephone."

Richard ignores him. "Every morning we cross the street arm in arm; I kiss her on the cheek before we go in; I smile whenever she's mentioned. If you asked about us downstairs, they'd tell you we've been smitten since we were young and that there's never been a single couple's row between us all these years."

"Has there been?"

Makes him smile, but it's sardonic. "We row plenty, but not as a couple."

"What about?"

He thought he didn't want to know about her, but now he's got all these questions, and it seems like Richard's obliging so long as he's not being spiteful.

"Most recently, you."

"Colour me honoured."

He hopes she was on his side.

"Never let it show, though," Richard says. "If we want them to think we've got a problem, we can make that happen, but it's easier just to act like it's paradise. We're a perfect match, as far as the household's concerned."

Nothing about this sounds easy. Nothing.

He says as much, and Richard shrugs. He's staring at his lap.

"I mean, Christ, when do you ever get to be yourself?"

"Early in the morning, late at night."

Poor bastard. 

It's not like Thomas gets to be himself that much, either, he's still walking on eggshells trying to fit in with everyone and not draw attention to himself, but at least at Downton everyone knows. They walk on eggshells right around him.

And he has his allies, downstairs, at least, unless you count Sybbie and George up above (who don't know and never will, if he can help it, but they've done more for improving his reputation upstairs than anything else, and they're seven and six). He's getting the impression Richard doesn't have anyone except the woman he's married to.

"Not the same."

"I was myself at Downton. With you."

But not his married self. Not his whole self.

_Could you please, please just look at me and tell me up front why you didn't think I deserved to know — _

Thomas swallows. 

"When was the wedding?" 

He says it in a mocking approximation of the tone people use to ask Daisy a slightly different question.

Richard seems a tad hurt that he isn't addressing what he just said; Thomas doesn't let himself think about it.

"August of 1914," he says, after a long pause.

Almost makes him laugh — it'd be a perfect love story, given that they're both alive and kicking thirteen years later, if not for one pesky detail.

"'Course it was."

"Seemed the natural thing to do," Richard says. He's slow, at first, and Thomas is about to say something, but then his pace picks up and he's rambling: "I was a first footman and occasional valet, back then; she'd just become a second ladies' maid, didn't think much of one another until she stuck her neck out for me when – when she had to, and then it was rather convenient to keep close. Everyone thought we were sweet on each other, we encouraged it so much as we could, what with how we were, are, I mean, and… then the war started."

That it did.

Richard takes a breath, exhales shakily, then puts his cigarette back to his lips. "We all figured we were in a reserved occupation."

But you can never figure anything in wartime.

Thomas learned that lesson the hard way, too.

"I gather you weren't," he says, flatly, and Richard laughs. It is not a happy sound.

"Ended up enlisting all at once with the Royal Fusiliers."

"And then you got married."

"Yeah, well, they were going to ship us out in September, and everyone else was doing it, so Fred and I talked it over. Proposed in front of everyone downstairs, made it seem like a big surprise for her, had the thing done in the Registry Office the next day. It all worked out quite nicely."

He talks like he's telling someone else's story — detached, bittersweet.

It would be romantic if they actually loved each other, Thomas has to admit. Probably romantic in some ways as is, but he can't imagine that Richard's war experience was much different than his own.

Hell in every possible way.

Which he dealt with primarily by tip toeing around getting court martialed and then having his hand shot up, and he's not about to assume that Richard did any better than him, at least where the court martial aspect of things is concerned.

"Given the circumstances, the master of the household was lenient, gave his word that if we came back we'd still have jobs despite our wives — and if I didn't come back, Fred'd get a pension out of it, maybe wouldn't have to stay in service forever."

"And look at you now."

In service forever.

Richard gives him a sharp look — not quite what he wants, but at least it's bloody something — then goes back to giving a vacant stare to the wall in front of them. "That's unkind."

He needs to be up front, to just go ahead and call him a lying coward, but he can't make himself do it. It should be easy; it's never been hard for him to fight his corner before, not with men. He could humble Richard in seconds with a few choice words; he's learned enough about him in the last week and a half to figure out how to kick him while he's down and keep him there — whoever came up with that whole thing about sticks and stones did not anticipate Thomas Barrow coming into the world, because murder with words is the one thing he's really got a knack for, the card he's always had up his sleeve. And it's the right time and the right place and he's _hurt,_ so he should just go ahead and play it, here and now, and then he'd never have to deal with Richard Ellis ever again.

The problem is that he doesn't want to, and he'd hate himself forever if he did. More than he already does.

"Not feeling especially charitable at the moment," he says, finally. It's honest, but it's not _awful;_ it's not sabotage.

"No," Richard says after a moment. "No, I wouldn't expect you to be."

He leans over to the night table, taps off his cigarette; the ash flutters on the way down.

Thomas stares at his fingers.

"If it's all as you say," he says, slowly, the vitriol seeping into his voice against his best efforts, because despite how much sense it all makes it stings so goddamn much that he wasn't trusted with this piece of information, "why didn't you just tell me?"

He hopes he's actually ready to find out and not just fooling himself out of a desire for this to be over.

Richard tilts his head up and closes his eyes, takes another drag. Every little thing about him is coordinated and premeditated, right down to how he smokes.

But he doesn't say anything, only leans over again to put out his cigarette in the ashtray.

"Well?"

"Wanted to forget about it, I suppose."

_And where do my feelings come into that, I wonder._

"Don't think you're meant to forget you have a wife."

He's starting to understand, though.

He didn't tell Webster he worked in service for the same reason — it would have brought them into the real world, where he can't get off work any time he pleases and can never bring a man around to his place and can't make one wrong move without ruining the lives of the family or his staff. They talked plenty, but not about their everyday lives outside of that storeroom. Would've spoiled the night for both of them if he'd gotten into it in detail, and he got the impression the case was similar on the other side.

"Bringing her up would've spoiled it."

Nevermind taking pages — they're writing the same damn book, aren't they.

The difference, the monumental difference, the thing that changes all of it, is that he and Webster figured their night was going to be a one off, no commitment, no need to know more about each other than that they were mutually attracted, but Richard made it crystal clear that he didn't see what they had that way.

If you want someone to remember you fondly, you should probably give him all of the bloody details before you go.

"Bungled that one, didn't you?"

He knows he's right: it probably _would_ have thrown a wrench in things, but what they're dealing with now is definitely worse.

Damned if you do, damned if you don't.

"Look, Thomas, I'm ashamed of it," Richard says, harsh and far too loud for their setting, and then he closes his eyes again, grimaces like he's in pain. 

He probably is.

"I – I married; I took the easy way out," he murmurs, after a moment.

That does make him laugh; even to his own ears the sound is stressed, hysterical.

"There is no bloody easy way out."

Richard looks him in the eye for the first time since Downton, and then they're kissing like their lives depend upon it.

***

They just sit in bed, after, nude, the linens all in disarray. He smokes; Richard doesn't.

Neither of them are nearly as tense as they were an hour earlier, but the afterglow is a far cry from what it was like the first time.

When they've been silent for too long, he gets up to stub out his cigarette, then crawls back into bed, sticks his foot under Richard's calf. Richard adjusts so that their bare thighs are touching. They're done, of course, both for time and fatigue's sake, but still. It's satisfying to keep up contact, feel each other's skin and hair and sweat and just know that they're close, feel like they're sharing something. Because they are, and they _did_, that's for damn sure.

His glove is sitting on the nightstand.

Nothing quite like sex when it comes to bringing out the truth.

"You're absolutely miserable, aren't you, Mr. Ellis," he says, when his voice comes back to him. 

It's been on his mind throughout all of this, even before he knew what was what, even before the damn telegrams and maybe even before the phone call, too, maybe since the night they had in Downton. They'd made it plain that it was the first time in years for both of them, and that's reason enough to feel dismal without everything else, in his opinion. Add it all together and it's incredible that Richard's as functional as he is. His wife may be a lesbian and have a lover and all of that, she and him may be best pals, he's not _cheating,_ but she's still his wife and he's still her husband, which means he's got to act like it, and clearly he does. Keeping up appearances day in and day out is exhausting.

He should know. He tried for years. Richard's far more successful at it than he ever was, seems like, but there's no way in hell that actually makes him _happy_. You can fool other people, and if you're especially talented you can fool every single person around you, because folks are idiots and if they don't want to see something that makes them uncomfortable half the time they just won't — but you can't fool yourself, no matter how hard you try.

Which is something else he's learned from experience.

"How do you figure?"

"Takes one to know one."

Richard closes his eyes.

Thomas lays his good hand upon his cheek and kisses him.

***

Once they're cleaned up and dressed again, Richard says, "she might be home at the moment."

Thomas only looks at him, brows raised.

"We could call, if you'd like."

Would he?

He's not sure, but at this point there's probably no more harm to be done, so he nods.

They end up huddled at the desk, him seated on it and Richard standing above him holding the earpiece between their heads. They're lucky it's an old fashioned one, or this could be awkward.

Well, it _is_ awkward, but that's not owing to the mechanics of the telephone, at least.

"Hello, this is the Ellis household on the royal domestic line, Mrs. Richard Ellis speaking."

The words still give him a jolt. Richard puts his hand on his knee, which calms him down and rattles him further at the same time.

"Mr. Richard Ellis calling."

A beat.

"Oh, thank goodness, I thought it might have been someone out of the Comptroller's office — Molly's over, but I'm back to work in a quarter of an hour, just darning a stocking."

For whatever reason, this makes Richard frown.

"Be ca – say hello for me."

He isn't looking at him, but he's started rubbing his hand in circles upon his thigh.

He's just as nervous as he is, Thomas realises, and he puts his hand — glove's back on, now — flat upon his own and presses. Richard takes a deep breath.

"Mrs. Davies told me about the accident," Fred says. Thomas obviously doesn't know her well enough to get a sense of what she's like over the phone, but she sounds guarded, to say the least, hesitant. "I've been worried sick, truly. How's your cousin?"

"Rather a false alarm," Richard says. "He'll be quite all right, I hope, everything's on the mend. I'm with him now, in fact."

"Well, then – can he hear me?"

"Yes."

"Hello, Thomas."

His mouth is suddenly dry. "Hello, er…" — what does he call her? what would a cousin-in-law call her? not Mrs. Ellis, and not Fred, either, he's pretty sure, Richard made it sound like that was a private nickname, it's not exactly common for a woman — 

"Winnie," she says.

"Winnie."

When others might be listening, at least.

"It was so good of Richard to see to you, after what happened, the least he could do, really. I'm always telling him he ought to make time for family and such as he's able."

What she means, he can tell, is, _sorry my husband fucked you over._

He likes her. Or he will, at least.

"Yeah, it's… a good thing he could make it."

He doesn't miss the start of a smile on Richard's face, nor the sudden change to nonchalance when he notices Thomas noticing — but it's there in his eyes, still.

Here come the butterflies again.

"And the arrangements for care and whatnot, everything's all honest and in good order?"

She's exactly like Richard — articulate, maybe just a touch self-regarding. This is clearly a woman who thinks before she speaks.

"Think so, yes, or – it will be."

He threads his fingers between Richard's and underneath his hand, fingertips to palm. 

"I'm so pleased to hear it."

"As was I," Richard says. He squeezes Thomas's fingers. The pressure feels nice – must be a good day, though it helps that it's warm outside and he got his blood flowing, probably.

When Fred speaks next, her voice is different; it's lighter. She's teasing him: "we ought to have you up to London soon as you're feeling better; you've been on our minds, you know, and dear Richard speaks ever so highly of you – "

"Say, Winifred, could you put Molly on?"

Thomas kicks him and hopes it comes off as affectionate and not catty.

Fred laughs, bright and sparkling.

"Sure thing."

***

"Where do we stand, then?" Thomas asks, while he's lacing up his shoes.

He needs to know.

And ideally in clearer terms than they last left off on.

Richard doesn't say anything, just keeps fixing his hair and his tie and his cuffs.

With good reason. It's not even time for dinner yet; if any bit of either of them seems out of place when they leave this pub, if they give anyone a reason to be suspicious, they're ruined. They don't have a good excuse for being in the same room for so long, either — Richard could probably think of one, that's the card up his sleeve, being quick on his feet and good at sounding like someone he isn't, but Thomas would really, really rather he not have to.

If his name ends up on two books in Yorkshire there's no way he's not going to prison, and the Crawleys aren't going to bat for him if he's there on a gross indecency sentence, let alone a buggery one — especially if he's actually guilty, in the law's eyes.

Maybe he could get himself framed for murder or something, instead.

"Thought I'd ask you the same thing."

In the past fortnight they've made four telephone calls, sent three telegrams, shagged twice, and fought once.

He wouldn't use the word 'friend' anymore.

"I do want us to… keep in touch."

Thomas puts his hands around his nose and mouth and huffs. "As _what,_ Richard."

Back on a first name basis, at least, but it's been hard for him to do otherwise, given how they got to it in the first place.

"If you don't want to — "

"Of course I bloody want to, I came out here, didn't I?"

Too loud.

They each take a deep breath.

They haven't resolved everything — couldn't have possibly, in the span of just a few hours, and with every question they answered another one popped up, but they did agree to keep _trying._

What they didn't do is mark out what that would actually look like, what they were going to try _for,_ because no one in his right mind is keen to talk about his problems with trust and commitment and honesty right after an orgasm.

"I want to _be_ something to you," Thomas says. There's a lump in his throat, and he hates it — he doesn't cry unless someone's died, and he's not about to change that now. He _can't_ change that now.

Richard turns from the mirror; Thomas turns from the bed; they lock eyes.

"Be my lover, Thomas."


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter includes implied/referenced consensual sexual content, injury, homophobia, legal homophobia.

## JULY 31, 1927

* * *

Thomas laughs, hoarse and erratic, and until he speaks Richard fears that it's at his expense, that he's going to get up tomorrow morning and go back to London without forgiveness — it'd be his right, he knows, it's up to him to determine if he deserves it, but that hardly makes him feel better.

"There is no bloody easy way out," Thomas says. 

His voice is strained.

Richard closes his eyes, breathes to steady himself, and turns to look at him. He wants to say something, to plead for something, but he doesn't know what — all he can do is stare into Thomas's eyes and wish he'd never allowed this to happen.

Thomas's lips part as though he's about to speak, and Richard tries to make any sound come out of his throat, but neither of them are successful in saying anything, because

— they're kissing in an instant, hungry and open mouthed, as though if they dare to part they'll never have the chance again. Thomas takes his bottom lip between his teeth and tugs; Richard presses his tongue against his lip; it's not the best kiss he's ever had nor the most pleasurable nor the gentlest but he cannot remember a time in his life when he's ever _wanted_ like he does now. It's taking over his entire body. The second they've parted Thomas grabs his lapels and says "can I," and Richard says "please, please," in a voice that doesn't feel like his own. They fumble to undress one another — he can't focus; Thomas's hands are shaking terribly; he doesn't think either of them expected this and it seemed like Thomas was determined not to give in from the moment he got off the platform, but right now they're frantic like this was all they came for and it's been put off for far too long.

When they're nude, clothes scattered on the floor (he can't remember letting them fall, he can't even remember how he got them off), they only stare at each other, breathing as heavily as if they'd already finished.

The light is still on.

They look.

There's the beginning of a sheen on Thomas's brow, his chest is rising and falling, his prick is almost erect, he's the most beautiful man Richard has ever seen in his life and he's just _there_, lying on top of the bedsheets before him.

Richard swallows.

It seems they have the same thought, because Thomas rolls over and untucks the linens. 

The moment they're under them, Richard says, "I'm a coward."

Thomas says, "so am I."

***

He is thankful for what he keeps hidden in the liner pocket of his suitcase.

***

Thomas mouths at his shoulder and thrusts into him at the same time, begins to moan and then stops himself; it is with enormous effort that Richard doesn't scream, because he's _incredible_.

***

"That was my first time," Thomas says, voice soft, almost cracking. "With – with being the one to – "

"Wouldn't've guessed."

His heartbeat is only now beginning to slow.

He wraps his arms around Thomas's torso and squeezes.

"I'm sorry," he says, once he feels able. "It's been – what, a week, a damn week, and I — I feel more for you than I ever have for anyone, and I was afraid, couldn't bear to think about leaving and going back to – I was a coward and I ought've been straight with you and whether you believe me or not, Thomas, I'm _sorry_…" 

It's like he can't control his mouth today, just keeps rambling and stammering and telling Thomas every thought that comes into his head as it happens. 

It's not like him to lose his composure. 

If he's not collected, he's nothing.

Thomas, relaxed upon his chest, eyes closed, touches Richard's chin with his finger, then the corner of his mouth, then his lips. He presses.

Makes him shut up, to be sure, and he doesn't realise it also makes him hold his breath until Thomas touches his own in the same fashion and he can't breathe in anymore.

It's a much needed reminder that he's capable of being brave, when it comes down to it.

"You saved my damn life, you know that."

_Rather be dead if I thought I was one of them._

Worst thing he's ever said, but it served its purpose.

He doesn't know what to say now, however.

"You're a liar, Richard Ellis, a good one," he adds.

He can't argue, won't argue; they both know it's true.

He's such a good liar that sometimes he forgets what's real and what isn't, because most of the time, neither are very pleasant.

"But you're not a bloody coward."

"Thomas, you don't have to – "

"Reckon I know what I'm on about, actually," Thomas interrupts. There's an edge in his voice, like _cross with you to say the least,_ but he gets the impression that isn't his fault, this time, or at least that he's not the target of it. "You squeamish?"

He sits up, abrupt, and Richard loses his train of thought.

Of all the things he expected Thomas might say, of all the questions he figured he might want to ask, that's not really one of them.

"What?"

"Are you squeamish, y'know, does blood – do you – "

"Not especially?" he says, and despite his best efforts he knows he sounds confused. He starts to get up, to sit next to him, but Thomas must feel it, because he reaches to push him back down.

"Want to show you something."

***

Turns out he's a bit more squeamish than he'd thought, but the turn in his gut is manageable, given the circumstances. He doesn't let Thomas put his glove back on, either, and he seems almost relieved by it.

Neither of them likes to hide as much as they do.

They settle in one another's arms, again, Thomas's head on his sternum, his breathing steady and clear. It gives Richard something to focus on. Without trying, he finds himself aligning with him; they inhale and exhale in the same rhythm. 

A strange thing to be doing in unison, maybe, but it makes him feel close.

"You saved my life."

It doesn't bear repeating, for Richard, at least, but it clearly does for Thomas.

Like before, he doesn't know what to say — it's not quite literal, except for how it is.

They've both heard stories, he's sure. A life in prison's not really a life worth living.

But he doesn't want there to be a sense of debt between them; he doesn't want it to hang over their heads. It was the right thing to do. He wishes it hadn't happened, but a small part of him wonders if things would have turned out the same if it hadn't.

'Things' wouldn't have. He's certain of it. He would have been too cautious, and Thomas would have been too hesitant, and he'd have gone back up to London wondering _what if they were like each other after all,_ think about what covert hints he might have missed and what innocuous comments he might have read too much into, and he'd mention him to Fred in passing and she'd give him a look and he'd just keep on being so goddamn _lonely._

"And it took, what, two hours? after that, for me to fall in love with you; I _liked_ you before then, but — just two bloody hours, Richard – "

_For me to fall in love with you._

"You're – "

"No, don't – don't say anything, just let me… look, I can't blame you, would've done the same thing, probably, not exactly known for my good character and all, but if you ever – if you ever do anything like this again – "

Thomas Barrow is in love with him.

Thomas Barrow wants to keep seeing him.

The threat goes unfinished.

"Can we just _try,_ can we at least try to – "

"If you'll let me."

"Fuck, why wouldn't I, after everything – "

Many, many reasons, but of those, they each have their fair share.

***

They kiss until they run out of oxygen, and then they look each other over.

Thomas fixes his shirt collar; Richard straightens out his lapels.

"Now what?"

"Now," Richard says, fighting to keep his voice steady, "you are going to go downstairs, and out the door, and you'll – there's an alley right around the corner, can't miss it, it's not private, you're going to go there and have a smoke."

Thomas nods.

"And in fifteen minutes I'll join you, and then we'll… "

"Go to the station."

"We'll go to the station."

And then he'll put Thomas on a back train to Downton.

And then he'll come back to this room, which is going to feel different. It's going to feel lonely.

And then he'll sit on the bed and feel sorry for himself and wonder when the hell they're ever going to get to see each other again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter is the epilogue!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter, like the last several chapters before it, includes: implied/referenced homophobia, mentioned war, mentioned minor character death. there is also consensual sexual content that got explicit enough i felt the need to up the rating.
> 
> and as promised, there is a happy ending.
> 
> (a happy ending not only owing to the rating change, but that might help.)

## EPILOGUE: DECEMBER 26, 1927

* * *

Naturally, the only day they can all get off is Boxing Day.

They come to meet him at King's Cross, and he spots Richard before he spots him — he looks much the same as he did in the summer, except he's got on a winter coat and has a woman about a head shorter than him on his arm. At least from a distance, she looks perfectly normal: cropped wavy hair, pretty, wearing a cloche and a plain brown dress and a felted coat. 

He's not sure what he expected. It's not like she'd be in trousers.

And he'd be fuming if he knew someone was looking at him and thinking he looked surprisingly ordinary despite his sex life, himself.

The station's crowded, it's morning rush hour, but Richard does see him only a minute later. They manage to meet by the departures' board.

Then they all just stand there, until Fred clears her throat and taps her foot.

"Yes, yes. Right. Fr – Winifred, this is Mr. Thomas Barrow; Thomas, my wife, Mrs. Winifred Ellis."

"Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Ellis."

"Likewise, Mr. Barrow."

Thomas takes her hand and shakes his.

It's extremely uncomfortable for all three of them, judging by the looks on their faces, but the air clears once they're out of the station. It's a brisk, gray, typical December morning in London: unremarkable, really, but it gives them room to breathe.

"Molly's working 'til nine," Fred says, once they're walking — she and Richard are arm-in-arm, although Richard keeps brushing their hands together in a way that probably isn't accidental, "but we're headed to her place."

"Where's that?"

"Lewisham," Richard says. "Other side of the river." 

"And quite far from Westminster," Fred adds.

Which is the point, really. 

"We'll take the bus, if you don't mind? It's not too hard to figure out — "

"I think Thomas knows how to take a bus, Fred."

"How should I know if he does or doesn't?"

"He's not a child — "

"He's from Yorkshire!"

_"I'm_ from Yorkshire — "

"And you'd no idea how to get around a real city when you moved here — "

"Wonder if that might have been because it was 1907 — "

Christ, they _do_ row.

***

"What would you have done if I hadn't?" he asks Richard, once they're on and moving.

Someone gave Fred his seat; they're straphanging next to her.

It's surreal.

Richard tilts his head to one side, brow furrowed, and Thomas almost smiles, but this isn't going to work if he can't keep a straight face.

"Known how to take a bus, I mean."

Fred bursts out laughing.

***

On the outside, the building is drab and dismal, but Fred and Richard both light up when they see it. To them, it's freedom, Thomas realises, and he suddenly feels nervous — it's only been half a year and he's just coming into their lives like this, and they're actually _letting_ him, they're welcoming him with open arms. He's not sure he deserves it, but he's very, very grateful.

Fred pulls a key out of her coat pocket and lets them in, and then there are two flights of stairs. None of them say anything on the walk up, but it's an easy silence, nothing awkward about it — which is nice. He's not sure when he was last as comfortable as this; it's not something he's used to.

She opens the door to the flat with another key, locks the door immediately after ushering them inside.

They start to take coats off, and he tries to follow suit, but then Richard takes up the collar and pulls it off his shoulders for him, gives him a smile as he turns around.

He forgets how to breathe, and they just stare at each other; the last time Richard looked at him like this was just before he kissed him that last morning at Downton —

Fred laughs at them, kindly, but he's embarrassed nonetheless. It ends the moment.

Richard takes off his jacket, Thomas does the same (on his own), Fred claps her hands together and says, "well!"

The flat's far nicer than he expected, if about as small — the front door opens into a sitting room with a sofa and some shelves and a little dining table and chairs, and then there are three doors, which Fred promptly explains: "kitchen, washroom, bedroom. Make yourself at home, let me just put the kettle on."

Then it's just him and Richard, who wraps his arms around his neck and kisses him almost immediately.

Except Fred barges back in within seconds — "left my hat on," and when Thomas jumps back from him, she says, "oh, don't stop on my account!"

And Richard actually takes her up on the suggestion, which is mad, but God, has he missed this more than anything.

***

Molly arrives about twenty minutes later, but he hardly gets a glimpse of her — she flings off a coat and apron, cries out, "happy Christmas, glad you got in all right, be back in a jiffy," and then darts into the bedroom.

Thomas blinks — she reminds him of Daisy at her perkier moments, if Daisy were about ten years older and from London.

"Molly's a whirlwind," Richard says. They're on the sofa, legs touching, Richard's arm around his shoulders and Thomas's hand on his knee, just because they can.

When Molly reappears, she's got her hair down, frizzy around her face from whatever kind of knot it was up in when she arrived (it's out of fashion, reaches past her shoulders — he _needs_ to stop being surprised at the fact that these women are normal people). Likewise, the shapeless blue dress she came in wearing has been replaced with a sweater and trousers, which makes him feel slightly less bad about all the assumptions he's been trying not to make.

Slightly.

He starts to stand up, do the whole proper presentations thing, but Richard pulls him back down and nuzzles his neck.

He's losing his goddamn mind.

"Molly," Fred says, slipping her arm around her waist, "may I introduce Mr. Thomas Barrow, Richard's sweetheart – " 

_oh God is that what he is is that what they are he's never been that to anyone before he shouldn't be this dizzy when he's sitting down_

"And Thomas, this is Mrs. Molly Harper, my wife."

He blinks.

They're all staring at him with mischievous smiles, expectant.

"Charmed," Molly says after a moment. She's giving him a look that manages somehow to be sympathetic and highly amused at the same time.

He opens his mouth to say something, literally anything, there's a whole bloody script for this kind of social situation and there's no reason he should be at a loss for words — 

Richard kisses his ear, which does nothing to help him get his act together.

"I – me, too," he manages.

Fred laughs again. "Been waiting to say that to someone other than Richard for ages — breakfast?"

Breakfast.

***

They don't let him help — makes him feel like a burden, but the kitchen's hardly large enough for one person, let alone four — and they shoo Richard out, too, then close the door behind them.

He's not sure for whose benefit. Everyone's, probably.

"Feels like I'm dreaming," Thomas confesses, after they've sat down again.

It's been on his mind since July, really, the fact that there's this whole world he's never known about, men and women doing their best and getting by all right and being happy, or at least contented, maybe not always _safe_ but still satisfied, or something like it. He'd always assumed that his life was normal, so far as the hiding and the suffering and the hatred and the scraping by go, that he was doing about as well as could be expected, and if he wanted for more, that was the greed and the spite talking, not something he could genuinely ask for and ever hope to actually get. People like him aren't supposed to be happy, according to everyone else, and everyone else has always dictated enough of his life that he believed it, resigned himself to what little he had and seized whatever he could get his hands on no matter whom he had to trample on to do it, because when would he have the chance again?

And now he's wondering if he's been wrong about that, all these years. Because there _is_ a whole world out there, a world that Molly and Fred and all of the men from his night out in York (on the last night of July he prayed for the first time in years and years for them, actually got down on his bloody knees and everything) live in, and even if they're not _always_ living in it, even if everyone's got a double life and has to hide and sneak around and pretend to be something or someone they're not for most of the day, it's still there for them.

It's close enough to brush up against it with his fingertips but not so close he can grab hold of it.

"Does, doesn't it," Richard says, and he tugs him nearer before shifting entirely and guiding Thomas's head into his lap. He yields; his reward is the feeling of Richard's hand on his head, tousling his hair.

Yet. 

Not so close _yet._

***

At just after ten o'clock they gather at the table — "bless, O Father," Molly starts once everyone's seated, and Thomas does his best not to look surprised, but he's apparently not alone in the feeling. Fred puts her elbow on the table and her head in her hand, gives her a look with raised eyebrows and tight lips.

"It's _Christmas,_" Molly says, "I'll feel just awful if I don't – "

At which Fred immediately softens, squeezes her eyes shut.

So they let her finish; he bows his head like she does and makes no sound when Richard slides his foot between his ankles, out of sight.

"...amen. Anyhow, Thomas, don't go thinking we're devout or holier-than-thou or anything, only Teddy was real Anglican and always said it every night, so I keep it up on holidays and such, for him."

"Just didn't think you'd want to in front of a guest, that's all," Fred murmurs. She lays out her napkin.

It's uncomfortable, to say the least. Richard's just staring at the ceiling.

"Why shouldn't I?"

"Oh, I don't mean anything by it – "

Molly kisses her cheek. "I'm not bothered. Thomas ought to be aware, if we're keeping him around."

Richard has a sudden coughing fit; Thomas takes a leaf out of his book and leans back in his chair to stare upward.

"Look at you two," says Fred, and when he looks back at her, she smiles at him. She pours a mug of tea for Molly, then for herself; they clasp hands on top of the table. For the first time, he notices her wedding ring: a plain, narrow band, not dull, but not especially shiny, either. Says two things about her: one, she's married, and two, she works for her living. Richard doesn't wear one.

Obviously.

He's not about to brood over where they'd all be if he did.

"Teddy was Molly's husband."

"Come on, Fred, he's not an idiot, is he?" Molly bites her lip, then sighs. "Yes, he was my husband, and my best friend, really, and he's gone in the war ten years ago this October – "

...so, Passchendaele, probably.

That was a bloodbath — then again, it was all a bloodbath, just four straight years of awful; plenty of women like Molly around because of it.

Plenty of women who lost like Molly, rather, far fewer in her actual situation.

" – and I miss him every day, but I'd be just miserable if he was still around and I had to see to him and keep house and be a mother and we all know it, so that's that."

It's surprising how frank she is about it, both the loss of her husband and her feelings on homemaking alike, but ten years is a good amount of time to grieve and move on from a death, really.

Especially if you never quite felt about the person how you were meant to, he imagines, but then again, that might make it worse.

He's not sure if he should say anything, so he nods and gives Molly a smile that he hopes seems sympathetic (feels more like he's just squishing his lips together), and though she returns it she also goes on, hasty, "let's just have some breakfast, shall we? Before the eggs get cold – " 

Fred and Richard are quick to oblige her; they all serve themselves. It's more elaborate fare than he's used to: porridge, eggs and bacon, tinned peaches and pears, toast with cinnamon.

Probably elaborate for all of them. It is Christmas, as Molly keeps saying.

Maybe next year he and Richard can return the favour.

_Don't get ahead of yourself._

Everyone's quiet for a while after that, as tends to happen even during meals that don't open with talk about dead people, but eventually he musters up the courage and breaks the silence: "I want to thank you again for…" (everything) "... having me up."

"Least we could do, really," Fred says, all gentle and encouraging, like he's a stray cat or a shy child or something.

Molly spoon feeds her a bit of peach, then pecks her on the lips; they both laugh.

Under the table, Richard scrunches up one of his socks with his toes, which is extremely bizarre and also, somehow, the most intimate thing he's ever experienced in his life.

It still feels like he should be waking up any minute now.

"No, don't say that, because it isn't; look, I – "

The lump in his throat interrupts him; his voice cracks. Less cat, more child.

…oh, hell, this is the last thing he needs, is some big display of emotion, and when he tries to get his bearings and steady himself and speak again, make a smooth recovery, he finds that he can't make a sound.

_You only cry if someone's died you only cry if someone's died you only cry if someone's_

"Oh, Thomas," Molly says, and while he's not actually teary eyed, he could be in seconds flat, which is embarrassing at best — crying is almost more mortifying when the people around him give a damn, because then he has to explain himself and get coddled and everyone ends up walking on eggshells.

But even if he doesn't start weeping, he's just gone and stuck his heart on his sleeve. There's no putting it back now.

Richard rises to stand behind him, puts his hands on shoulders, starts to rub firm circles into his back with his thumbs. "Easy, Mr. Barrow."

Thomas presses the heels of his hands against his eyes and huffs.

Thankfully, his eyes don't water.

"You're too bloody good to me, you know that," he mutters, once he feels like he can speak again. He says it mostly to Richard. Sentiment goes for all of them, though, if he's honest. None of them had to do any of this and he's amazed that they have, that this is for all intents and purposes only the third time he and Richard have even been in the same room together and it's on fucking Boxing Day when any one of them could go be with their family or something instead and not risk losing everything by having him around — 

"Could say the same to you," replies Richard, a murmur. He's working at a knot in his shoulder he didn't know was there. This makes for an excellent hidden talent, as far as he's concerned.

It helps, too. He's no longer on the verge of tears, although that doesn't mean the feeling's resolved.

Deep breath.

"Just… thank you, all right? You didn't have to, and you could've done less, but you did it anyway, and that – it means something."

No one says anything, but neither of the women have the _oh dear what shall I do Barrow is emotional tut tut_ looks on their faces he might expect from anyone else. They're not his staff, after all.

Clean slate.

"You're welcome," says Fred. It's not the cursory response it usually is. "I do mean it."

"Yes, you're welcome any time," Molly adds.

Richard caresses the back of his neck before sitting down again.

***

They do the washing up, just the two of them. 

Lather, rinse, dry, repeat; they don't have to talk, so they don't. The only sounds are the slosh of water in the basin, an occasional, unintelligible bit of conversation from Fred and Molly through the door, the hammering of rain upon the window.

It takes longer than it should because they can't stop kissing between dishes.

***

"You get _one round,_" Molly's saying. She's sitting on the floor, cross-legged, and holding up a pencil and paper like it's a matter of life or death. "One round each, and you only get it because he needs to see this with his own two eyes, and then we'll do couples."

Richard grins, lays his watch out on the floor in front of them, then sits next to Thomas and puts his arm around his shoulders.

They're about to play what Thomas is getting the sense is going to be the most competitive game of charades he's ever taken part in in his life.

"Titles?" Fred says, smoothing out her skirt. 

"Titles."

"Genre, then, Molly?"

"Theatre?"

"Oh, theatre will do," Fred says, and for a few seconds she just stands there tapping her foot, but then she smiles. "All right."

"Two minutes work?"

"Sure thing," Fred says, and then she adds, "we'll give you two, what, six, then?"

Odd way of setting rounds.

"This is going to be different from what you're used to," Richard says, sly.

So he's gathered.

Molly passes her the paper; she writes more than just a few words, passes it back. It goes underneath Richard's watch.

"Go."

It's simple for about two seconds: she holds up two fingers, Richard says, "two words,'' then, "first word, three syllables."

All she does is curtsey.

"His Majesty," says Richard immediately; Fred's only halfway done shaking her head when he amends with "_Her_ Majesty."

"That's _cheating!_" Molly wails, but she's already laughing.

Thomas doesn't even have time to wonder on how that's not one word nor three syllables before Fred makes some gesture he doesn't even see properly and Richard goes, "H.M.S. Pinafore."

Which is correct.

"Right, time out — no more royal anything." 

"Sounds fair to me, that," Thomas says, and Richard ruffles his hair in the back.

He's starting to be glad he hasn't made it to a barber in a couple of months.

"Sounds fair because it _is_ fair — go on, you two, I'll count back in," returns Molly. She leans forward to stare at the watch, then peeks up to raise her eyebrows at Thomas.

He raises his right back at her. He's not too sure what he's meant to be expecting.

"Three, two, one."

"Five words, two articles, first word – the? Second word – "

Fred only flips her hand around.

"Two," Richard says, confidently, and she keeps going. "Third word, three syllables, sounds like… head… The Two Gentlemen of Verona!"

Fred looks at Molly.

"Don't stop," she says, excited, "I'll tell you when it's been two."

"One word – not English? three syllables – "

She turns her arm in and puts her head in her hand, closes her eyes. 

"Huh," says Richard, and just when she starts to make another gesture, he slaps his thigh and says, "Salomé."

Fred claps.

"Ought've been quicker at that one," Richard adds, even though it took about ten seconds maximum, and he shifts his arm around Thomas's neck. "Three words, one article, second – second word? Hit. Punch – The Punch Bowl?"

In less than five.

"You're bloody _joking,_" says Thomas, "how is that even – "

"Mad, isn't it," Molly tells him, grinning, "keep on – "

Richard kisses his cheek, and then he guesses nine more in the next minute.

She'd written down twenty.

***

"It's not quite that they're cultured," Molly tells him — they're in the kitchen; he's helping to set up the tea tray.

Charades are over. After going in 'couples' for a while, they ended with one last round of Richard and Fred, in which they exhausted a good chunk of the Edwardian literary canon.

"I mean, they _are_ cultured, for people like us – er, working people, not the other thing, but also they just have a knack for it and they know each other real well, can do it with nursery rhymes and psalms and everything. Ordinary fare. It's not quite as quick when there's more to act out, but it's always a spectacle."

"I'll say." 

He and Molly had not done nearly as well early on, despite the fact that they'd been two of the most successful rounds he'd ever played – relative to at Downton, at least. But everyone at Downton is sort of awful at things like this, at least in large numbers. 

Might be easier in general when it's one on one, let alone one on one with someone you know like the back of your hand.

He'd done even better with Richard, too, as he probably should have.

She turns off the stove and grabs a tea cosy. 

Thomas puts it on the pot for her, and she keeps talking as they carry everything out to the table: "and then – well, once we're at this point it's only for my entertainment, really, I can't compete with either of them and nor can anybody we know, and half the time I never know who the person's meant to be, either. But if I let them talk they can be anyone, you know, folks on the radio, people at the Palace, the damn grocer. I don't know how they do it; it's really uncanny, not like regular old impressions, it's – it's just bonkers. You probably don't believe me, but…"

He does, though, easily, in fact, because he's witnessed it himself — or heard it, rather.

"Oh, he'll have no trouble believing you," says Richard, echoing his thoughts. "He's seen it." 

And then he comes up behind him and wraps his arms around his waist, puts his chin on his shoulder. (He's turned out to be far more tactile than Thomas would have guessed, even after all they got up to in July, but he might just owe the setting for that one.) 

"Has he?" says Molly.

"Well, Thomas just so happened to be in the Comptroller's office when Sir Barnston called for the footmen at Downton this summer – "

"That was _you_?!" Fred shrieks.

"Someone has a habit of forgetting to say things, huh," Thomas says, but he's trying to be good-natured about it — he clasps his hands on top of Richard's own.

"What, did I never tell – "

"_No_, you never told me! and you know it, too, don't you try and put me on – Christ, we could've both lost our _jobs_ – "

"I – I know, Fred – "

"We could've been positively _ruined_ – "

"Yes, but we _weren't_ – "

She bursts out laughing.

"Oh, my God, I – Richard _Ellis_, I cannot believe I missed out on the first rash thing you ever did in your _life_ – "

Richard buries his face into Thomas's neck.

***

They stick to cards and word games after that — turns out he's excellent at fictionary, both writing and guessing. 

Things quiet down eventually, though, because Molly keeps falling asleep and then jerking awake moments later.

"We're taking a nap," Fred announces, after it happens for what feels like the millionth time in a minute, and she gathers Molly up and walks her to the bedroom.

The door closes softly behind them.

"Not too tired yourself, are you?" Richard says. "You did get a night service – "

Before answering, Thomas cups Richard's cheek in his hand and kisses him, close-mouthed. He lingers, and when he speaks, their lips touch again. "Not especially."

***

About two hours later, he wakes up with his head in Richard's lap.

***

Time passes in the afternoon in a blink-and-you'll-miss-it fashion.

He doesn't even think _it must be getting late_ until he and Fred go to set mugs in the kitchen sink and it's dark outside. That's not saying much, because it's December, after all, but it does mean their day is drawing to a close, and he hates it.

Turns out Richard and Fred are heading to Sandringham House first thing in the morning: he'll send Thomas off from King's Cross, she'll lock up for Molly, who will be well into her shift at the hospital, they'll meet at Liverpool Street Station.

Their train will leave around the time his is passing through Cambridge.

So, the three of them will be dining with suitcases in tow.

Molly and Fred both look torn up about it.

He wonders if they're looking at him and Richard and feeling a similar way.

***

"I think you'll be very good for him," says Molly. 

She's on his arm, which feels sort of unnatural, but they figured it would feel unnatural to other people if she wasn't. For the same reason, she put a dress on and pinned her hair up into waves before they left the flat.

Looked uncomfortable from the moment she came out of her bedroom, too.

Richard and Fred are a couple of paces ahead of them on the sidewalk.

"He's been good for me."

He really has.

They've gotten to know one another better since summer, he and Richard — they've written long letters, posted all at once in a bundle on half-days (outgoing mail gets read at Buckingham Palace), had a couple of circumspect phone calls. No more telegrams, though, because neither of them are made of money.

He helps Molly side-step a puddle. It rained all mid-day, but by the time they left the flat it was only drizzling, thankfully. No need to get soaked.

The four of them are off to eat, and then they'll part — or, the couples will, rather. He's not headed back to Downton just yet: Richard got them a room not far from the station that Thomas insisted on paying for. Not like they won't get the rate's worth, for one, and for two, he needs to return the favour from July.

And three, it's been since bloody _July._

"Must be tough," she continues. "It's hard as it is only seeing Fred a couple of times a month at most, can't imagine – "

She stops short.

"Well. You won't want to think on it, I suppose, really."

"Don't mind, in fact," he says. He doesn't. "Not like I can talk about it with anybody else."

There's always Baxter, of course, but despite how steadfast she is in her acceptance of him — at this point she's more like his sister than his actual sister ever was — it can feel off talking about your long distance lover with someone who's known you since you were four years old.

(And he's grateful every day that _that's_ why they don't talk about it, because God, with everyone else in his life there's just a whole heap of other reasons he keeps his mouth shut, and it's a much needed reprieve that he doesn't have to do that with her.)

"I know what you mean."

Turns out they've got more in common than he'd expected. That's what he's been learning, all day, that they've all got things in common and they can get on with each other and be more than just cordial and considerate. At some point they might even be friends.

And he actually wants to be, too.

"Yeah?"

Sounds more like a question than he wants it to, because he knows she must.

"Well, I – I do have a few friends, actually."

Oh.

"But I see them less often than I see her, to be honest, working nights and all. And those two," she nods her head forward, "they've got each other, you know, and it's… well, it's very hard, of course, doing what they do day in and day out, Lordy do they get in the soup sometimes, but they have each other." She takes a deep breath. "And I come home alone every morning, don't I, while all the other girls at work go home to their husbands."

It's funny, really. They couldn't seem more different on the surface, but he feels the same way every evening, when Mrs. Hughes heads back to Carson, and the Bateses go down together, and Daisy gives Andy a kiss before she's off to Yew Tree, and… he goes upstairs and wonders how Richard's getting on in London and pities himself.

Molly sighs. "I'll say, though, 'cause I'll bet he didn't tell you, that Richard doesn't really have anyone other than us, and he was in a… a very bad way about it for ages and ages."

He swallows.

He does know what that's like.

"He'd just get so down, what with me and Fred, and him not seeing anyone, and the touring this year was just awful til July, sounded like, it's not like he's got friends in service to the King. But he's rather a whole new man now he's got you, Thomas."

She squeezes his hand.

He can't help but smile.

***

Dinner is both delicious and uneventful, which, Richard tells him on their way out, is exactly how they wanted it. 

They're waiting for a tram, now; they'd sent Molly and Fred back on a bus. It was a quiet, fond goodbye.

Mostly, he just hopes he'll get to see them again before this time next year.

***

At the inn, Richard gives false names and speaks in an accent that isn't his own.

As long as he's not lying to him, Thomas finds he doesn't actually mind him lying.

***

They don't start kissing until after they've gone up, locked the door both ways, gotten out of their coats and hats, _and_ set down their things.

Someone should really give them a damn medal.

***

"Washroom's private," Richard says, between giving kisses to the underside of Thomas's jaw.

"What?"

It's like a reversal of their first time: they're at the wall beside the window, only it's Richard who has him up against it now.

And he's taking full advantage of the position.

"Washroom's private," he repeats, and he pulls back far enough that he can look Thomas in the eye but not so far that he can't palm him through his trousers unexpectedly.

Which is what he does, and Thomas grits his teeth and closes his lips so that the moan in his throat doesn't leave his mouth loud enough to ruin this for both of them.

"If – " He can hear Richard swallow. "If you wanted to – "

_Oh._

"You wouldn't prefer to – "

"I'd prefer to return a favour, Mr. Barrow," he breathes, thumb gently pulling on Thomas's lower lip, eyes wide open.

Because that's what they're doing tonight, isn't it. _Returning favours._

He doesn't need to tell him three times, that's for sure.

***

Richard is far more patient in this position than its opposite.

Thomas would find it charming if he weren't experiencing exactly why.

As it is, he's just doing his best not to whimper, not to thrash around, not to get too ahead of himself, because he doesn't even have an actual cock in him yet and it's _embarrassing_ that this is doing him in like this, but it'd been years in July and now it's been years plus six months and he's waited _so goddamn long_ — and though he knows, too, that in a little while he's going to be exceedingly grateful for the time taken here, he's finding that a large part of him really just wants them to get on with it, wants to shove his hips down and beg and cry or whatever the hell it'll take to get more of this.

He hums, because it's the only noise he trusts himself to make wisely, and then he takes a deep breath in through his nose and out through his mouth and tries to keep looking at Richard — both in the eye and all over.

Because it's amazing that they both want him to.

Plus, they did leave a light on, that's apparently how they do things, so he might as well make good use of it and ogle.

"Beautiful." 

Even though there's sweat on his brow and his prick is hard and he's had two of his fingers inside of him for what feels like fucking hours (probably hasn't even been two minutes, knowing him), Richard's voice is _steady._

"Coming from you," Thomas replies, breathy and wavering, and at least he's aware that the same thing couldn't be said of him, right, he knows that he sounds like a mess, that's got to count somehow.

"Won't argue with that one, I'll admit," says Richard, and he parts his fingers, then crosses them or twists them or something and they get very, very close to — 

"_Blimey_," he says, through gritted teeth, because it's a nicer thing to say than _bloody fucking hell_ even if it makes him feel like an idiot, "I – I – "

"Shhh, Thomas."

"Can't you just — "

"Soon."

Richard has an expression on his face like Thomas might expect him to have while looking at paintings at the fucking Louvre or something, some combination of judgmental and appraising and _this is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my life,_ and it's too goddamn much to know that he's not looking at art, he's looking at _him._

He pulls his fingers out, but only to take up more vaseline (from the jar that he apparently just always has on him despite not having had a shag since 1923 until half a year ago), coat his hand in it, and put three back in.

_You are going to kill me, Richard Ellis._

***

They succeed in keeping their eyes on each other during the preparations, and it's not at all difficult for Thomas to watch as Richard slicks his cock up and ever-so-gently pushes up his knees, but after that it's like he might as well have lost the ability to see at all.

He can _feel,_ though, God, can he feel: the pull in the backs of his thighs, the firm grasp of Richard's hands at his waist and shoulder, the shift of his hips against his backside, all of the little things he'd completely forgotten about over the last few years and that are overwhelming, now that he's experiencing and remembering them in the present, and then _finally finally finally_ the one thing he's remembered vividly every night but that he can never come close to actually having despite his best efforts, the thing that maybe he can be satisfied without but that nothing else in the whole world will ever compare to, the thing that he's maybe-kind-of gotten close to with one offs but hasn't really come near to since, what, fifteen odd years ago _— _

It's not the feeling of being full or taken or stretched; it's not even the pulse he feels in his entire body when he thrusts in just the right direction and he has to bite his damn cheeks not to scream; it's not even those things alongside the little things, because even all of that, _only_ all of that, wouldn't be enough.

Even though everything about Richard is incredible, even though it's perfect and _he's_ perfect and he knew what he was doing taking so damn long before and he knows what he's doing now that he's actually in him, whether from experience or just from the awareness that being on the receiving end gives you or both Thomas doesn't even care, because it's amazing and he never wants it to _stop;_ even though he has all of those things and that makes a difference, it wouldn't be what it is if he didn't have the other part of it, as well.

Because what Thomas has actually been yearning for is this: everything physical, everything he senses in the act whether his eyes are open or closed, all of that, combined with the fact that the man fucking him is also _making love to him._

That's what he's been missing.

That's what Richard Ellis is giving him.

***

"Shhh, Thomas, shhh," and because he knows he won't be able to shut up by his damn self he turns his head to the side and into a pillow, forces himself to breathe even as he's rolling his hips into Richard's like he'll die if he can't get him in the right _place_ again — he squeezes Richard's forearm and only just manages to stop himself from twisting, because he is so goddamn – 

"Are – are you close – "

"Yes – "

"Can I – in you – "

"Please – "

"I – "

"_Please_ – "

And Richard laughs, thrusts into him with more energy and does get to the right bloody place again _thank God_ and then he just keeps going and Thomas might be laughing himself even if he's not sure why and lovemaking is just a hell of a fucking drug because they come at the same time without him even being _touched,_ and then they just collapse on the bed, tangled up in one another, exhausted, but it's the best kind of exhaustion there is.

***

"I'm going to miss you with all my heart," Richard murmurs against his chest.

There's something about him that makes common sayings and little clichés sound like poetry.

"I love you," replies Thomas. 

It's the only thing he can think of that he knows will come out of his own mouth sounding anywhere near to verse.

***

They get cleaned up in the washroom at the same time.

Somehow, it isn't awkward, though Thomas thinks it would be with anyone else. With Richard, though, it's natural, both the sex itself and what has to come before and after it.

He doesn't protest, then, when he takes the flannel out of his hand, gets it wet again, and starts doing his back and his inner thighs and between his legs for him.

Would've made him feel vulnerable, once, scared, probably, but it doesn't now.

"Always know what to do, don't you," Thomas murmurs.

"Never done this before, actually," Richard replies, "never cared to."

How about that.

***

They sleep in the other bed. 

In addition to being more comfortable, it will give them the advantage of not having to muss it up a few hours later to keep up appearances.

***

In the morning they get an actual wake-up call, via the in-room telephone and everything — they don't even have to answer it, apparently, although Richard does.

All Thomas hears of that conversation is, "goodbye."

"Clever," he says. He's half-asleep. He's not sure why he says it; it's not like he answered the phone that way.

"Good morning."

"Mmph."

It isn't even two hours before the time he'd normally be waking up, but he still wants to go back to sleep.

"Tell me why I got a night train."

"Was going to ask you to do the same thing."

The answer, of course, for both of them, is because they're grown men with jobs and places to be by mid-morning, but now is one of those moments when he really, really wishes they weren't.

***

As far as first mornings together go, though, it's a nice one — they get to learn more about each other, see how it is they do things, catch a glimpse of the routine.

"When was the last time you dressed someone?" Thomas asks, halfway through pulling his trousers on.

This earns him an exasperated huff.

"Just thought I'd ask, you know, given your job description – "

"Very funny."

"Never hurts to practise, does it?"

So he gets the valet treatment, and then he gives it, because that was his job at one point, too.

"Although I actually did it every day – "

Richard kisses him.

He kisses back and finishes buttoning him into his waistcoat at the same time.

***

They keep coming up with excuses not to leave just yet, but eventually it starts getting to the point where they absolutely have to or Thomas will be stranded in London.

So they use the last good one: for obvious reasons, they cannot kiss each other goodbye on the platform at King's Cross, so that needs to happen now.

Thomas is the one with the willpower to end it, surprisingly — he does it by stepping back and putting his hat on, then his coat; to make up for it, he helps Richard into his own.

"Ought to be going," Richard says, once he's finished. They are the words of a man who is not about to go anywhere, and Thomas tries to give him a look that says _don't make this any harder than it has to be._ But it's clear already that Richard's made up his mind, that he's going to make this difficult, so bloody goddamn difficult, and frankly, Thomas isn't even sure he minds.

He'll mind if he misses his train, of course, but he's only got the logical foresight at the moment, not the this-is-actually-going-to-affect-your-life-please-care-about-it foresight.

Except that they aren't doing anything other than staring at each other.

"Thomas, I…"

This is basically just Harrogate all over again, but four in the morning, and worse. 

"I love you."

Well, now they can't _not_ kiss.

***

He is on the platform at King's Cross with one single, literal, actual minute to spare.

Thank God they spent their time _saying goodbye_ and weren't just running late for ordinary reasons, or it would be even more hellish than it already is.

***

POST OFFICE 

TELEGRAM

ORIGIN DEC 27 1927 0843 ELY RECEIVED DEC 27 1927 0846 DOWNTON

BARROW

CO DOWNTON ABBEY

DOWNTON NORTH YORKSHIRE

THINKING OF YOU

R AND W ELLIS

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr as [@combeferre](https://combeferre.tumblr.com/)!


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